OTHE 


RARY   I 

•RSITY  Of 
FORNU 


LETHE 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS. 


DAVID    MORGAN   JONES. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 
1882. 


LIB* 


Copyright,  1882,  by  J.  B.  LlPPIXCOTT  &  Co. 


753 
J  758? 


DEDICATION. 


It  is  with  heartfelt  gratitude  and  pleasure  I  dedicate  this 
little  volume  to  my  friend, 

HARRISON   WRIGHT,  PH.D., 

At  whose  suggestion  these  ephemeral  verses  have  been 
collected  in  book  form,  and  by  whose  lenient  criticism  I 
am  led  to  hope  that  if  this  first  essay  does  not  meet  with 
approval,,  some  subsequent  effort  may  be  more  successful. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


LETHE         .        .        .        .        .        .  .        .        .7 

YORKTOWN 16 

MEMORIAL  ODE 21 

THE  HOLY  CHILD 26 

SABBATH  BELLS 29 

MAY'S  MEMORIAL       .        . 31 

THE  VANISHED  MAIDEN     .......  34 

HER  EYES .        .  36 

WHEN  SNOW  SEEMS  WHITEST 37 

GARFIELD   POEMS. 

GARFIELD .        .        .39 

AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE 42 

HEAVENLY  WATCHERS  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  .        .    44 

GOD  AND  THE  SEA .    46 

THE  SECOND  MARTYR 48 

AT  REST 51 

COLUMBIA  TO  ARTHUR 52 

LOVE'S  WOUNDS -53 


6  TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

MOONLIGHT  GOLD 54 

KISSING 57 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW    .......  59 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 63 

SHELLEY 64 

KEATS          .                         66 

POE  AND   HIS    "ANNABEL   LEE" 67 

DREAMS .  68 

THE  LOVER'S  NEW  YEAR 70 

HENRY  ARMITT  BROWN 71 

SONG .        .  73 

JENNIE 75 

BURIED  LOVE'S  EPITAPH 77 

THE  LOWLY  LOVERS  OF  THE  MUSE 78 

THE  RICH  AND  THE  SUFFERING 79 

LOVE'S  SONG 80 

REMENYI 81 

"  BETTY  AND  THE  BABY" 82 

WINTHROP  W.  KETCHAM 85 

FLAG  AND  FATHERLAND 88 

BEAUTIFUL  IN  DEATH 90 

MY  LOST  YOUTH        . 91 


LETHE. 

I  CHOSE  me  a  day  that  was  death-like  with  languor, 
Unchanging  and  chimeless,  and  willing  to  die 

Unremembered,  would  bid  me  to  cast  the  soul's  anchor, 
And  dream  by  a  shore  where  the  heart's  shadows  lie. 

And  methought  I  had  seen,  in  the  dream  of  that  day, 

A  poet's  sad  face,  and  could  hear  him  say : 

"  I  sing  not  of  Lethe,  the  peace-giving  river, 

Where  amnestied  souls  sweet  forgetfulness  drink ; 

Whose  fountains  will  rise  out  of  Fable  forever, 
And  flow,  like  a  song,  and  flood  over  the  brink 

Where  the  living  look  down  on  the  suffering  dead, 

Till  the  calm  of  its  tides  o'er  their  spirits  is  shed. 

"  I  stand  by  a  stream  had  its  rise  in  the  ruin 
Of  the  four  golden  rivers  of  Eden,  long  hid, 

By  the  side  of  the  river  their  lost  billows  drew  in, 
By  the  bank-  of  the  river  their  beauty  undid, 

As  they  hurried  down  Eden,  heavy-laden  with  flowers, 

Sad,  fragrant  farewells  from  its  death-shaken  bowers  ! 

7 


8  LETHE. 

"The  Tree  of  Life  fell  not,  nor  faded  those  bowers, 
But  its  wierd  waters  buried  the  unwritten  bliss 

Of  a  life  that  was  sinless  as  Eden's  own  flowers, 
Of  lips  that  were  worthy  a  seraph's  white  kiss, — 

Swept  over  Love's  history  written  in  bloom, 

And  left  him  the  dim  lore  of  death  and  the  tomb  ! 

"  It  gathered  its  tides  to  the  tune  of  the  river 
Of  Time,  but  below  it  its  channels  were  laid ; 

And  at  last  'tis  a  sea  that  is  feeding  forever 

On  the  wrecks  which  the  waves  of  that  river  have 
made. 

Then  Lethe  I  name  it,  the  wonderful  sea 

That  stretches  from  Eden  to  where  the  dead  be  ! 

"Lost  Atlantis  lies  in  it,  in  Lethe,  eluding 

The  sapphire-wing' d  Legends  that  sigh  for  its  shores  ; 

Yet  oft  on  our  joys  we  find  pity  intruding 

For  the  land  that  bequeathed  us  its  golden  Azores : 

What  music  in  mid-sea  then  mingled  with  Death's ! 

And  the  sea-winds,  his  couriers,  how  sweet  were  their 
breaths ! 

"  Not  Atlantis  alone,  but  her  conquered  dominions, 
The  isles  her  Aladdin  Lamp  found  and  illumed  ! 


LETHE.  g 

O'er  her  lands  which  lay  westward  dim  Myth  spread  its 

pinions, 

And  Lethe  at  length  its  possessions  entombed. 
The  learning  of  Egypt,  the  splendors  of  Hellas, 
Was  Atlantis  their  leavening  Light,  Lethe?  O  tell  us  ! 

"In  thy  bosom  lie  treasures  the  Flood  left  unbroken, 
And  secrets  the  Sphinx  dared  never  to  keep ; 

Dark  ^Eons  brood  o'er  thee  that  waft  not  a  token 
Of  lives  and  of  loves  like  the  sands  of  the  deep. 

By  the  gateway  of  glory  thy  cold  waters  creep, 

And  lives  sink  in  Lethe  as  babes  fall  on  sleep. 

"  Thy  listless  tides  reach  far  away  into  shadows, 
On  the  shore  of  Mythology  break  in  dim  dreams, 

Till  the  lands  of  the  real  do  seem  Eldorado's, 

And  the  regions  of  Myth  glow  with  life's  radiant 
beams. 

Thy  mists  float  the  border-land  lying  between 

The  giants  of  Fable  and  earth's  living  green. 

"  Sevenfold  more  secure,  then,  be  Fairyland's  bowers — 
The  abodes  of  the  gods  and  the  Muses  of  old — 

Than  battlements  paced  by  the  purple-plumed  Hours, 
Than  statues  of  Venus  or  vessels  of  gold  ! 

Oblivion  engulfs  the  high  Babels  of  men, 

While  the  fays  gaily  trip  over  heather  and  glen. 


10  LETHE. 

"  But  the  soul,  looking  off  the  grand  heights  of  Tradi- 
tion, 

Feels  an  awe  the  vast  Ocean  can  never  inspire, 
When  thou  conjurest  forth,  like  a  mighty  magician, 

The  ghost  of  Old  Rome  in  a  glorious  attire : 
But  to  vanish  again  while  its  stern  features  show, 
Like  the  face  of  King  Lear,  the  sad  havoc  of  woe. 


"  And  the  songs  which  be  sunk  in  thy  silence,  O  Lethe  ! 
The  bards  whose  sweet  breathings  be  mixed  with  thy 

breath, 

And  the  poets  who  verily  craved  thy  nepenthe, — 
Oh  !    the  world  thy  waves  found  in  the  wake  of  fleet 

Death, 

The  ruin  Death  leaves,  for  thy  waters  to  wreak, — 
Oh  !  the  lips,  after  death,  vainly  longing  to  speak  ! 


"  I  have  come  to  thy  Death-haunted  shore  unattended, 
And  stand  by  the  waves  where  my  own  songs  shall 
sleep ; 

I  look  o'er  thy  waters,  nor  have  yet  repented 

My  measures  that  move  to  the  tune  of  thy  deep,; — 

That  may  touch  not  the  soul  of  one  man  or  one  woman, 

Strike  never  a  chord  in  the  heart  of  the  Human  ! 


LETHE.  II 

"  But  I'll  sing  for  the  love  of  the  song  and  the  singing, 
For  the  sake  of  the  solace  that  flows  with  the  song, 

For  the  boding  of  death  in  its  very  beginning, 
For  pity  of  it  that  it  cannot  live  long; 

For  pity  the  song  and  the  singer  must  part, — 

For  pity  they  met,  saith  a  voice  in  my  heart. 

"  O  Lethe,  how  sing  to  the  Sea  the  great  masters, 
Till  like  its  own  billows  their  grand  anthems  roll ! 

But  what  if  they  sang  of  thy  wrecks  and  disasters, 
The  ruins  thou  holdest  of  body  and  soul, 

The  sweep  of  thy  flood  over  living  and  dead, 

And  them  that  live  on  after  honor  is  fled  ? 

"  By  thy  lullabies  soothed,  some  be  deaf  to  thy  dirges, 
Nor  feel  the  damp  breezes  that  blow  from  this  shore; 

And  a  spell  the  spent  spirit  evermore  urges 

Down  here,  while  the  halos  'round  others  implore 

Their  fair  guardian  angels  to  save  them  from  thee, 

As  the  feet  of  a  child  are  held  back  from  the  sea ! 

"Are  there  nymphs  in  thy  kingdom,  and   mermaids 
and  naiads, 

Who  covet  the  lyres  and  the  lutes  of  the  young? 
And  be  they  in  league  with  the  woodland's  deft  dryads, 

To  shatter  th'e  harps  on  the  willow-trees  hung  ? 


I2  LETHE. 

Then,  seeing  wan  singers,  like  lilies,  a-dying 

In  brooklets  of  song,  fall  to  sobbing  and  sighing? 


"•Be  they  merry,  thy  pale  nymphs  in  mockery  wearing 
The  gems  that  were  meant  for  fond  Memory's  brow? 

Is  that  laughter  I  hear  for  some  mortal  despairing 
To  wrest  back  his  pearls  from  their  grim  keeping  now? 

Is  that  book,  but  a  shadow  of  blue  and  gold,  read 

By  thy  naiads  to  tickle  the  ears  of  the  dead  ? 

"  Twin  Shapes  on  thy  shores, — be  they  lovers,  departed 
The  loves  of  this  life  on  their  sweet  wedding  eve? 

It  cannot  be,  these  so  free  and  light-hearted  ; 

The  mists  which  surround  them  my  eyesight  deceive. 

Thy  nymphs,  they  must  be,  in  that  faded  trousseau, 

And  they  laugh  as  the  owners  laughed  long,  long  ago. 

"Earth's  millions  are  thine,  and  the  mile-stones  they 

counted, 

The  footprints  they  made  !     And  so  it  shall  be 
Till   the  stars  the  last   time  heaven's   hill-tops   have 

mounted, 

To  light  up  the  pathway  to  Death's  house  and  thee  ! 
O  Lethe,  thou  lavest  our  beautiful  Land^s ; 
But  they  heed  not  thy  whispers,  they  see  not  thy  sands  ! ' ' 


LETHE.  13 

Thus  spake  the  poet,  but  ere  he  had  ended 
A  voice  out  of  Lethe  fell  soft  on  the  ear, 

While  with  it  weird  music,  and  death-like,  was  blended, 
And  he  paused  then  to  listen,  but  showed  not  a  fear; 

The  sound  seemed  familiar  and  friendly  to  him, 

In  a  spot  that  was  lonely,  a  light  that  was  dim  : 

"I'm  the  spirit  of  sleep,  which  no  dreams  do  encumber, 
Save  the  shadows  of  dreams  even  Death  dare  not  cast ; 

All  things  that  I  touch  sink  down  deeper  in  slumber 
Than  the  dust  of  the  dead  in  the  present  or  past ; 

But  the  pulses  now  stilled  in  these  waters  Lethean, 

Should  they  throb,  what  a  tumult  the  billows  would  be 
in! 

"  Here  Silence,  the  singer  sole  deathless  and  solemn, 
Loud  chants  the  long  paean  of  Lethe  o'er  Pain  ! 

The  breezes  that  blow  thro'  these  billows  be  breathless, 
And  Echo  here  sighs  for  an  answer  in  vain  ! 

Power  in  pantomime,  pomp  in  dumb  show, 

Earth's  pageants  become  where  these  still  waters  flow ! 

"  But  remember,  O  singer,  the  sorrows  I  cover, 
The  shame  and  despair,  with  each  merciful  wave  : 

How  many  a  fair  lass  hither  fled  from  her  lover  ! 
What  secrets  rest  here  would  not  stay  in  the  grave  ! 


I4  LETHE. 

How  kind  is  the  veil  I  throw  over  the  souls 
Who  were  scorned  in  the  sunshine  where  Fame's  river 
rolls  ! 

"  No  nymphs  here,  no  mermaids,  and  never  a  naiad 
To  laugh  at  the  old  or  to  envy  the  young. 

The  Pole-star  of  mariners  here  is  the  Pleiad, 

And  the  vessels  they  sail  in  have  never  been  sung. 

My  harbor  is  Rest  where  the  sailors  all  sleep 

In  oblivion  unbroken,  eternal,  and  deep  !" 

Then  the  poet  said  :    "  Lethe,  flow  over  my  sorrow, 
Flow  over  the  slips  which  my  footsteps  have  made, 

Flow  over  my  song  that  must  die  on  the  morrow, 
Flow  over  its  flowers  that  must  wither  and  fade ; 

But  leave  me  the  loves  which  do  sanctify  life, 

And  a  soul  that  is  stronger  than  sorrow  or  strife! 


"  And  Lethe,  flow  over  the  false  and  unreal, 

The  dreams  that  be  vain  and  the  hopes  that  deceive  ; 

But  leave  me  henceforth  a  diviner  ideal, 
A  life  worth  the  battle,  a  creed  to  believe. 

Flow  over  the  pathway  that  opens  to  fame, 

Leave  me  love  for  mankind  and  an  unsullied  name." 


LETHE.  I5 

The  poet  has  ceased,  and  my  day-dream  is  over, 
While  a  wondrous  fair  river  rolls  up  at  my  feet ; 

I  have  stood  here  before,  but  'tis  now  I  discover 
The  music  that  breaks  o'er  these  waters  is  sweet. 

This  cannot  be  Lethe  !   there's  life  in  the  billows  ; 

A  soul  could  not  sleep  with  these  waves  for  its  pillows. 

Here  be  odors,  with  subtle  wings,  born  of  the  roses, 
That  pierce,  as  by  arrows,  the  helmet  of  Sleep  ! 

The  heart  that  throbs  most,  on  its  bank  best  reposes, 
The  soul  that  grows  like  it,  its  beauty  will  keep ; 

And  the  Sunshine,  unsheathing  its  flaming  sword,  ever 

The  way  of  life  guards,  by  this  on-rolling  river  ! 

Rolling  on,  driving  Darkness  and  Evil  before  it, 
Till  they  leap  into  Lethe  at  last  and  be  lost ; 

Rolling  onward  while  rainbows  of  glory  bend  o'er  it, 
And  its  spray  o'er  the  lands,  like  a  blessing,  is  tossed ; 

Rolling  on,  'mid  the  songs  of  the  multitudes  thronging 

Its  strand,  to  still  the  soul's  sighing  and  longing  ! 

'Tis  the  river  of  life,  love,  knowledge,  and  laughter, 
Of  beauty  and  music  and  blossoming  shores  ! 

'Tis  the  River  of  Life,  of  the  happy  Hereafter, 
Flowing  here,  by  the  banks  of  our  golden  Azores, 

Past  the  Ultima  Thule  of  human  endeavor, 

Bidding  glorious  defiance  to  Lethe  forever  ! 

June,  1882. 


YORKTO  WN. 

Lo  !  the  sun  in  a  century's  silence  enshrouded 

Rearisen  with  radiance  divine. 
Marching  up  out  of  night  into  glory  unclouded, 
To    the   dawn  with   great   hopes  and  grand  destinies 

crowded, 

Toward  the  splendor  of  noon  and  the  beauty  of  even ; 
But  never  to  set  again,  dazzling  in  heaven 
With  a  light  that  the  like  of  to  see  was  not  given 
The  legions  of  Rome  in  their  visions  immortal, 

Or  lovers  that  lived  on  the  Rhine ! 
O  Yorktown,  be  proud  !  standing  guard  at  the  portal 
Whence  was  usher'd  this  glory  divine ! 

O  Yorktown,  be  proud  !  keeping  guard  at  the  portal, 

Where  the  sun,  rearisen,  appears, 
That  shone  on  the  heroes  who  seem  more  than  mortal, 
As  they  follow  that  sun  thro'  its  crystalline  portal,     . 
A  wonderful  army,  the  old  Continentals, 
16 


YORKTOWN.  17 

With  their  giant-like  tread  and  their  quaint  regimentals ; 
And,  with  hearts  full  of  love  for  those  grand  Conti- 
nentals, 
Brave  princes  by  blood  and  by  nature,  as  brilliant 

In  court  as  in  war ;  and  their  peers, 
Our  princes  of  mountain  and  forest,  the  valiant, 
Undaunted,  half-clad  volunteers  ! 

And  Yorktown,  be  gallant,  while  guarding  the  portal 

Where  the  sun,  rosy-red,  reappears, 
That  flash'd  on  proud  dames  and  bright  damsels  im- 
mortal, 
For   the   sheen  of  their  smiles  as  they  pass  thro'   its 

portal — 

Pure  rays  of  true  hearts  and  fair  faces  as  ever 
The  arena,  rose-red,  of  heroic  endeavor 
Lit  up:   or  drew  darts  from  the  wing'd  god's  quiver, 
Oh  !  sacred  those  smiles  to  the  kinsman  and  lover, 

And  sweet  to  the  lone  cavaliers ! 
That  like  shadows  of  Paradise  'round  their  paths  hover 
As  they  gaze  down  a  vista  of  tears. 

Now  Yorktown,  rejoice,  for  this  day-king  in  rising 

Has  straightway  come  forth  of  the  sea ; 
And  the  vessels  that  follow  fear  never  capsizing, 
With  the  spray  of  this  glory  their  broadsides  baptizing, 
2* 


1 8  YORKTOWN. 

And  mann'd  by  bold  crews  that  are  crown'd  with  eter- 
nal 

Tiaras,  who  fought  as  if  fresh  from  infernal 
Far  lakes  of  fierce  fire,  yet  with  spirit  supernal ; 

With  a  sea-king  of  hearts,  of  their  own  hearts'  desir- 
ing, 

The  model  of  navies  to  be  ! 
O  Yorktown,  be  jubilant !  aye,  without  tiring, 
For  the  sun  that  arose  from  the  sea  ! 


Oh  !  the  sun  that  had  shone  on  the  dreams  that  were 

shattered, 

On  the  dying  all  over  the  land, 

On  bands  of  brave  men  that  were  beaten  and  scatter'd, 
On  the  pillar  of  hope  in  the  South  that  was  batter'd 
And  broken  in  pieces  !     But  what  was  their  future  ? 
Though  a  navy  rode  up  at  this  critical  juncture, 
Were  it  not  for  the  probe  of  a  genius  to  puncture 
The  head  of  that  triumph,  or  heart  of  Cornwallis, 

With  the  fate  of  a  world  in  his  hand  ! 
Behold  the  Great  Washington !  who  all  in  all  is 
In  this  hour  to  that  doom-threaten'd  land. 

O  Genius  of  War !  soon  outwitting  Cornwallis, 
And  smiting  his  soul  with  dismay  I 


YORKTOWN.  !9 

Ah  \  bitter  the  draught  of  that  fit-chosen  chalice, 
To  be  drain' d  of  the  dregs  by  crestfallen  Cornwallis, 
Who  a  lion  had  proved  in  his  lair,  when  the  onset 
Was  swift  as  a  torrent,  but  grand  as  the  sunset — 
No  grander  than  this  sun  had  ever  yet  once  set — 
That  promised  the  British  no  hope  on  the  morrow ; 

Presaging  the  siegers  a  day 
Which  would  heal  with  its  balm  the  sore  heart  of 

sorrow, 
And  give  them  fair  Freedom  for  aye ! 


"Forlorn  hope" — the  world's  hope — the  besieged  now 

assailing  ! 

Their  hopes,  the  redoubts,  are  forlorn  ! 
And  who  are  the  heroes  against  them  prevailing? 
The  leaders'  names  tell,  who  the  parapets  scaling  ! 
Young  Hamilton,  hope  of  a  nation's  fond  nursing, 
Deuxponts — "Chevalier" — turning    laughter   to    curs- 
ing- 
Such  the  braves  in  an  hour  our  fell  fortunes  reversing 
Eternal  tiaras,  too — myriads  admiring — 

These  soldiers  unsullied  adorn. 
O  Yorktown,  be  jubilant !  aye,  without  tiring, 
For  the  day  when  young  Freedom  was  born  ! 


20  YORKTOWN. 

O  Frenchman  !  no  freedom,  returning,  awaited  ! 

How  hot  were  the  balls  that  ye  huiTd  ! 
Ye  that  fell  where  this  fabric  of  strength  was  created, 
Scarcely  knew  with   what  moment  your  mission  was 

freighted ; 

But  your  lives  were  the  gold  of  this  temple's  adorning. 
Too  strong  for  destruction,  too  noble  for  scorning, 
That  rose  into  being  that  beautiful  morning. 

The  Temple  of  Freedom,  that  never  shall  crumble, 

But  will  stand  while  endureth  the  world  ! 
Ah  !  had  not  the  conquer 'd  King  cause  to  be  humble 

When  those  banners  of  peace  \yere  unfurl'd  ? 
O  Yorktown,  be  proud  !  standing  guard  at  the  portal 

Whence  is  usher'd  this  glory  divine  ! 
O  field  of  all  fields!  that  made  valor  immortal, 
The  birthday  of  Freedom  is  thine  ! 

October  13,  1881. 


MEMORIAL    ODE. 

Read  before  the  G.  A.  R.  of  Wilkesbarre,  at  Music  Hall,  Tuesday 
Evening,  May  30,  1882. 

THE  soldier's  path,  'mid  Hope's  flushed' flowers  begin- 
ning, 
Ends  here  among  the  roses  Love  has  strewn. 

But  then  what  lay  between  was  worth  the  winning, 
Tho'  like  Gehenna,  groaned  the  gory  way 
That  led  him  to  these  tinted  tents  of  May, 

And  hence  and  upward  to  the  fragrant  camps  of  June — 

And  higher  still  t' wards  Nature's  highest  heaven, 
Where  light  and  sound  the  perfect  day  do  make. 

O  happy  slumberer  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  lie  on  Summer's  heart  and  take  thy  rest, 
Whether,  like  thee,  in  snow-white  garment  dressed 

For  sleep,  or  watching  'mid  the  flowers  till  thou  awake  ! 

How  like  the  mother  in  her  youthful  beauty, 

She  folds  thee  to  her  warm,  sweet-smelling  breast ! 
No  longer  thine  to  do  a  soldier's  duty, 


22  MEMORIAL    ODE. 

Helpless  and  happy  here  as  any  child, 
To  dreamland  fair  by  countless  blooms  beguiled, 
And  all  earth's  sweets  be  thine  without  the  weary  quest ! 

But  now  do  we,  who  have  not  yet  divided 

The  deep,  dark  waves  that  gave  thee  back  thy  youth, 

Look  o'er  the  waters  where  thy  spirit  glided 
So  like  a  dream  unto  this  flowering  shore 
Where  merry  voices  ring  forevermore, 

Like  children's  voices,  like  thine  own  in  sooth  ! 

And  some,  thy  friends  who  strayed  with  thee  in  child- 
hood 
So  oft  these  very  burial  grounds  among, 

The  golden  meadows  and  the  echoing  wildwood, 
With  step  like  that  of  youth  fresh  garlands  bring, 
Bright  as  thine  own  hands  wove  in  pleasant  Spring, 

Till  these  old  hearts  of  ours  grow  soft  again  and  young. 

Now  far  from  us  as  thee,  the  noise  of  battle  ! 

Like  babes  upon  a  holiday  at  last 
War's  visage  dim  we  scan,  the  cannon's  rattle 

Like  them  in  wonder  hear — so  old  is  peace  ! 

This  is  not  dotage — 'tis  the  heart's  release 
From  the  long  bondage  of  the  grim  and  gloomy  Past ! 


MEMORIAL    ODE.  23 

Why,  veterans  here  there  be,  that  carry  flowers, 

Who'd  weep  with  strange  delight,  if  they  might  see 

In  vast  array  the  hosts  that  once  were  ours ! 
Hailing  once  more,  in  many  a  doubtful  fight 
The  boys  that  saved  the  day  then  sank  from  sight, 

They'd  toss  their  hands  and  shout  for  joy  hilariously. 

O  Peace !  what  blessed  boon  is  this  you  brought  them 
That  took  the  cruel  sting  of  war  away  ? 

What  charms  Lethean,  these  you  kindly  wrought  them 
So  well  to  heal  the  wounds  that  war  had  made  ? 
Oh  !    Peace,  these  hearts,  once  Sorrow's,  dost  per- 
vade, 

What  golden  vistas  down  the  Nation's  larger  day  ! 

As  May's  white  blossoms  hide  the  hurts  stern  Winter 
Inflicted  on  the  tempest-conquering  trees, 

That,  like  a  cavalcade  of  heroes,  enter 

The  rich  realms  where  May  was  crowned  Queen  ; 
As  earth's  deep  wounds  are  covered  o'er  with  green, 

Your  deathless  deeds,  O  dead,  and  fadeless  victories, 

A  brightening  wilderness  of  blooms  and  glories, 
Loom  up  between  us  and  the  wrecks  of  war  ; 
And  tho'  we  cherish  still  its  touching  stories, 


24  MEMORIAL     ODE. 

Now,  like  romance,  your  sufferings  almost  seem 
The  blessed  memories  of  a  painful  dream  ! 
Whose  pain  has  given  us  Peace,  as  night  the  Morning 
Star! 

Whose  pangs  have  brought  us  joy,  as  night  the  golden 
morning : 

For  not  less  brightly  hath  Aurora  smiled, 
That,  as  the  legend  saith,  for  her  adorning 

She  stole  full  many  a  rosy  child  away ; 

Nor  Peace  less  bright,  we  cannot  find  to-day, 
The  flower  of  Chivalry  unto  her  dawn  beguiled  ! 

Time  hides  the  crimson  of  the  cannonading, 
The  imperial  purple  death  did  then  display  ! 

And  war's  red  memories,  faded  now  or  fading, 
Have  yielded  to  the  golden  crown  of  Peace. 
Let  not  her  hopes,  the  while  her  powers  increase, 

Like  golden  apples  turn  to  ashes  cold  and  gray  ! 

But  living  soldiers,  not  the  less  we  love  you ; 
Death  yet  denies  you  glory's  tear-dewed  wreath; 

Nor  less  ye  love  the  Flag  that  soared  above  you, 
It  firm  refused  to  be  your  battle  shroud  ! — 
Of  this,  surviving  heroes,  we  are  proud, 

That  Freedom's  flowers  blow  fairer    for   your  loving 
breath  ! 


MEMORIAL    ODE.  2$ 

Your  voices,  mingled  with  the  battle's  thunder, 

And  feeble  farewells  of  the  dying  brave, 
Your  hearts,  that  heard  their  heart-strings  break  asun- 
der, 
Your  hands,  that  clasped  the  hands  that  saved  the 

day, 

Your  hands,  that  brought  back  laurels  from  the  fray, 
Are  needed  the  rich  fruits  of  conflict  yet  to  save  ! 

Then  let  the  buried  dead  again  be  buried 

Full  deep  beneath  the  flowers  of  Love  and  Peace  ! 

Not  as  in  war,  when  funeral  rites  were  hurried, 
But  thoughtfully,  and  lovingly,  and  slow  ; 
Ye  have  more  time  than  in  the  long  ago, 

To  scatter  flowers,  less  cause  the  tear-drop  to  release  ! 

Spare  not  the  sweetest  rose,  the  tenderest  blossom 
Fond  Nature  into  being  ever  fanned  ! 

For  martial  garb,  she,  'round  each  hero's  bosom 
Her  "coat  of  many  colors"  loves  to  fold, 
Helmeted  with  the  daisy's  sacred  gold, 

To  dull  the  darts  that  fly  from  Time's  relentless  hand  ! 

Sleep  well,  beneath  Columbia's  starry  skies  ! 

Your  fame  with  her's  coequal  shall  increase, 
Ye  soldier  dead  !    Oh  !  may  your  sacrifice, 

To  deeds  as  grand  our  souls  bestir,  in  perilous  peace. 
3 


THE    HOLY    CHILD. 

FROM  lost  Eden  down,  the  Seasons  Four 

Had  dreamed  of  the  Holy  Child ; 
Spring  caught  His  smile  in  the  dream's  sweet  core, 
And  in  her  heart  hid  it  forevermore  ; 
And  her  face  thenceforth  a  sweeter  smile  wore, 

And  her  spirit  grew  gentle  and  mild. 
Every  tree  she  touched  broke  out  in  blossoms 

•  That  bloomed  with  a  tenderer  grace ; 
And  a  myriad  arbors  bared  their  white  bosoms, 

To  make  Him  a  resting-place  ! 

From  the  Promise  down,  the  Seasons  Four 

Had  dreamed  of  the  Birth  Divine ; 
And  Summer  found,  in  the  dream's  deep  core, 
The  Heart  of  her  heart  forevermore : 
And  redder  thenceforth  the  roses  she  wore, 

And  richer  the  fruit  of  the  vine  ! 
Then,  flushed  with  the  Dream,  round  her  purple  throne 

Her  gifts  of  gold  up-piled  ! 
26 


THE  HOLY  CHILD.  27 

The  royal  honor  seemed  hers  alone, 
To  herald  the  Holy  Child  ! 

Thro7  long  ages  dim,  the  Seasons  Four 

Had  dreamed  of  His  natal  hour ; 
And  Autumn  saw,  in  her  sad  dream's  core, 
The  glorified  look  the  young  child  wore, 
Tho'  a  dying  heart  in  His  bosom  He  bore, 
And  in  her  heart  hid  it  forevermore 

In  fading  leaf  and  flower. 
On  flower  and  leaf  a  crimson  glow 

Life  out  of  Death  foretold  ! 
And  she  said,  "  If  He  come  ere  winter  winds  blow, 

I  will  weave  Him  a  crown  of  gold." 

Down  to  His  coming,  the  Seasons  Four 

Had  dwelt  on  the  Birth  Divine ; 
Winter  heard  His  voice  when  the  dream  was  o'er, 
And  echoed  its  music  forevermore. 
And  whiter  thenceforth  seemed  the  raiment  she  wore, 

And  she  cried,  "  The  honor  is  mine : 
I  see  His  bright  star  through  the  frosty  air  gleam, 

Bending  o'er  Him,  feel  His  warm  breath ; 
And  deep  in  my  bosom  I  treasure  the  dream, 

Who  had  been  the  herald  of  Death." 


28  THE  HOLY  CHILD. 

O  heart  of  winter  with  rapture  thrilled, 

Thy  dream,  the  first,  came  true  ! 
With  whitened  locks  the  Seers  of  eld 
The  Blessed  Babe  in  their  arms  had  held  : 
But  the  human  heart  'gainst  the  dream  rebelled, 

And  the  Lord  of  Glory  slew  ! 
Wise  men  of  the  East !  how  your  golden  gifts  glow 

In  the  light  of  Bethlehem's  star  ! 
As  we  carry  bright  gifts  to  our  babes,  thro'  the  snow, 

Is  its  radiance  near  or  far? 

December  22,  1881. 


SABBATH    BELLS. 

SWEET  Sabbath  chimes  !  that  change  one  sun  in  seven 

To  sevenfold  brighter  beaming, — 
Six  earthly  lamps  outshone  by  one  of  heaven, 
Alit  of  holy  morn  and  holier  even  ! — 
Glad  sounds,  the  week's  harsh  discourse  all  redeeming  ! 
Blithe    bells,  whose    hearts    of    heaven    are    sweetly 
dreaming, 

Seven  heavens  in  one,  one  day  in  seven  ! 

O  hallowed  chimes !  ye  seem  to  fall  from  heaven, 

From  belfries  far  above  us, 
Builded  of  morning  gold  and  gold  of  even  ! 
From  bells  that  turn  to  gold  one  day  in  seven, 
Beneath  the  strokes  of  angel  bands  that  love  us, — 
Our  bells,  they  bear  to  belfries  far  above  us, 

The  bells  of  heaven  one  day  in  seven. 

Sad  souls  who  deem  those  bells  too  high  in  heaven, 
Remember  they  are  ours, — 

3*  29 


3o  SABBATH  BELLS. 

Our  bells,  the  angels  ring  one  day  in  seven, 
Your  chimes,  the  boon  a  tender  Heart  hath  given, 
Your  bells,  that  chant  within  those  golden  towers  ! 
And  the  sweet  sounds,  that  fall  like  heavenly  showers, 
Do  bring  you  to  heaven  one  day  in  seven  ! 

Blest  chimes  that  give  us  all  one  day  in  seven  ! 

For  them  the  gift  desire, 

Ye  bring,  seven  days  in  seven,  the  songs  of  heaven, 
And  your  sweet  echoes  morning,  noon,  and  even  ! 
Then,  tho'  those  bells  be  high,  the  sound  mounts  higher, 
And  tho'  those  chimes  seem  far,  heaven  is  nigher, 

And  earth  like  heaven  seven  days  in  seven  ! 

October  26,  1881. 


MAY'S    MEMORIAL. 

So  warm  thy  kiss  and  odorous  sweet, 
So  kindly  comes  thy  quickening  breath, 

May  !  born  of  winter  brave,  'tis  meet 
Thou  shouldst  recall  a  soldier's  death 

Sweet,  with  the  odors  of  a  hallowed  fame, 
Or  glory's  lighter  wreath. 

Mother  of  flowers  !  forever  young, 

Merry  and  maidenly  and  mild, 
Immaculate  May  !  whose  praise  is  sung 

By  winged  choirs  and  undefiled, 
Thy  sympathetic  smiles  made  glad  indeed 

The  soldier's  orphaned  child. 

And  soldier's  widow,  doomed  to  mourn 

In  mid-May  of  her  wedded  youth, 
Among  love's  roses  left  forlorn, 

But  for  thy  tenderness  and  ruth 
Her  breast's  keen  wounds,  methinks,  thy  balm  would 

heal, — 
Already  hath,  in  sooth. 

31 


32  MATS  MEMORIAL. 

Rememb'rest  yet,  when  reeking  blades 
Smote  thy  white  blossoms  till  they  bled  ? 

A  sense  of  sadness  since  pervades 
Our  souls  when  gazing  on  the  red 

That  wear  henceforth  for  us  a  deeper  hue 
In  honor  of  our  dead. 

Thrice-happy  heroes  !  whom,  in  throes 

Of  lonely  death  and  thrall  of  night, 
Thy  zephyrs  fanned,  their  eyelids  closed  ; 

Blest  as  thy  blooms  that,  veiled  from  sight, 
The  while  their  wealth  of  perfumes  gathered  wealth, 

Beneath  the  stars  reposed  ! 

May's  loveliness,  by  times,  in  mist ! 

Kind  mother  !  this  like  grief  appears. 
Oh  !  when  they  fell,  how  little  wist 

The  erring  brave  of  other  years 
Our  quick-forgiving  love  would  equal  thine, 

Thy  kisses  and  thy  tears  ! 

When  wintry  doubts,  dark  force  more  dread 

Than  war,  beleaguered  and  annoyed 
Our  heroes,  haunted  by  their  dead, 

It  seemed  to  them  in  vain  had  died — 
As  erst  a  host  God's  breathing  angel  slew; 

Thy  birth  these  doubts  destroyed. 


MAY'S  MEMORIAL. 


33 


They  found,  we  trust,  in  blossoming 

A  fairer  May  beyond  the  skies, 
Who  strove  till  freedom's  second  Spring 

Fell  soft  between  the  flashing  eyes. 
Such  death  turns  Winter's  frost-work  into  flowers, 

Whose  green  leaf  never  dies  ! 

Few  are  thy  flowers  that  are  not  frail, 
And  none  so  fair  they  fear  to  fade ; 

But  when  the  founts  of  Summer  fail, 
The  Paradise  thy  beauty  made 

In  mortal  memory  will  greet  them  all 
In  spotless  robes  arrayed. 

While  thou,  fond  mother  of  the  fair, 

Still  bosomed  in  eternal  Spring, 
Wilt  breathe  thy  blessings  on  the  air, 

And  nurse  new  buds  to  blossoming. 
So  Freedom  beautifies  her  dead,  but  waits 

No  braver  following. 

May  18,  1881. 


THE    VANISHED    MAIDEN. 

THE  gold  in  the  sky  was  burning, 

As  I  walked  one  eve  by  the  sea, 
And  the  lustre  it  shed  was  turning 

All  things  into  gold  but  me ; 
For  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  sorrow, 

I  was  proof  'gainst  the  beautiful  change, 
And  my  soul  was  unable  to  borrow 

That  glory  so  silent  and  strange. 


But  soon,  with  a  music  enchanted, 

That  rose  from  the  shells  on  the  shore, 
With  a  phantom  of  joy  I  was  haunted, 

And  I  heard  her  soft  whisper  once  more,- 
The  voice  of  my  own  vanished  maiden, 

Buried  deep  in  the  caves  of  the  sea, 
And  my  soul  then  sighed  for  her  Eden, 

And  struggled — with  her  to  be  free. 
34 


THE    VANISHED  MAIDEN. 

The  music  increased,  and  the  billows 

Fell  back  into  deep  repose, 
With  white  tranquil  foam  for  their  pillows, 

When  a  form  from  the  waters  arose ; 
'Twas  the  form  of  my  long-lost  maiden, 

Buried  deep  in  the  caves  of  the  sea, 
Whose  soul  had  returned  from  her  Eden 

To  talk  for  one  moment  with  me. 

Let  grief  from  your  bosom  be  banished, 

Be  happy  on  earth  for  awhile, 
For  soon  the  maid  that  has  vanished 

Will  welcome  you  there  with  a  smile, 
Where  the  gold  in  the  sky  is  burning, 

And  whence  we  shall  look  on  the  waves, 
While  the  lustre  that's  shed  is  turning 

All  things  into  gold  but  our  graves. 

July  21,  1879. 


35 


HER    EYES. 

HER  eyes  !  Are  there  not  wondrous  subtle  shadows 

Far  down  them  that  of  star-born  spirits  tell, 
Who,  hastening  from  their  shining  Eldorados, 

Looked  in  nor  ceased  to  look,  they  loved  so  well  ? 
I  sometimes  think  there  never  gleamed  in  star-land 

As  lovely  soul-lit  rays  as  grace  her  eyes : 
Their  hues  ethereal  borrowed  from  that  far  land 

Beyond  the  stars,  where  all  sweet  lights  arise. 
There  is  a  depth  of  meaning  in  their  being 

So  ravishing  whene'er  we  gaze  therein, 
And  hence  a  heaven  we  see  amid  their  seeing, 

Where  pure  white  thoughts  burn  incense  for  our  sin, 
And  strong  celestial  yearnings  come  and  go 
With  sorrow's  dew  upon  their  wings,  for  others'  woe. 

1878. 


WHEN     SNOW     SEEMS    WHITEST. 

O  WINTER  snow  !  dost  seem  the  whitest, 

Beheld  by  wee  and  wondering  eyes 
Of  babes  imagining  thou  mightest 

Or  must  have  fallen  from  Paradise  ! 

Their  young  souls,  come  from  Heaven  but  lately, 
Where  all  is  white  and  pure  and  fair, 

Oh  !  does  it  not  delight  them  greatly, 
To  think  thou  too  hast  come  from  there  ? 

Ah  !  when  the  snow  the  whole  air  whitens, 

With  what  pure  eyes  they  see  it  fall ; 
And  white  as  Heaven  the  vision  brightens, 

And  God's  white  mantle  covers  all ! 

Oh  !  perfect  purity  of  childhood  ! 

How  close  to  God  their  spirits  dwell ! 
Or  if  they  perish  in  the  wildwood, 

Or  in  warm  homes  they  fare  them  well. 

4  37 


3  8  WHEN  SNOW  SEEMS    WHITEST. 

For  them  is  aye  a  steadfast  token, 
Their  Heavenly  Father  still  is  near, 

O  happy  spell !  how  brief,  when  broken  ! 
Dear  days,  long  dead,  grown  doubly  dear  ! 

December,  1881. 


GARFIELD. 

O  SORROW,  thou  hast  seized  upon  the  night 
That  holds  the  dawn  of  that  immortal  day : 
Has  risen  radiant  'round  the  upward  way 

Of  Liberty,  till  now  we  fear  its  light — 

Its  rosy  rays  we  fear,  lest  they  may  fall 

Upon  our  prostrate  Garfield,  pale  in  death ; 
In  dread  suspense  we  wait  its  wakening  breath, 

Lest  it  may  bear  him  from  us  after  all. 


Lost !  after  all  the  flickering  gleams  of  light 
Our  loving  eyes  beheld  thro'  clouds  of  grief, 
And  hope  restored  to  us  once  more  our  Chief? 

O  rosy  rays  !  how  hateful  to  our  sight, 

If  he  should  die  !  how  darksome  were  the  day, 
With  all  its  glorious  glowing  like  the  East ! 
O  Freedom  !  how  can  we  partake  thy  feast, 

If  our  beloved  Garfield  pass  away ! 

39 


4o  GARFIELD. 

What !  shot  to  death  there,  in  the  very  eve 
Of  that  great  day  would  make  a  traitor  true, 
And  Freedom's  very  Capitol  in  view  ! — 

Our  loving  hearts  the  news  would  not  believe, 

If  so  our  unbelief  might  rescue  him ; 

Our  anxious  hearts  with  beating  hopes  might  break, 
If  so  he  live  again  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Heaven  send  Thy  light,  the  light  of  hope  is  dim. 

Kind  God  !  the  news  that  cometh  now  is  good  ! 

Pour  Thou  Thy  strength  around  his  rallying  heart, 

Thy  healing  balm  upon  the  wounded  part ; 
Oh  !   may  Thy  quickening  spirit  o'er  him  brood, 
And  bring  again  the  rosy  hue  to  him, 

And  to  the  morn  that  is  about  to  rise ; 

Dispel  the  darkness  from  these  midnight  skies, 
The  dark  that  makes  the  dawn  of  hope  so  dim  ! 

And  give  us  Garfield,  true  to  Thee  and  self, 

To  the  Republic  true,  and  brave  as  truth ; 

Restore  us  him,  who  gave  his  life,  from  youth, 
To  God  and  country,  not  to  power  and  pelf. 
How  like  a  splendid  morn,  his  brief  career ! 

Oh  !  would  the  months  were  years — they  were  in 
sooth 

If  we  but  count  what  he  has  done  for  truth — 
Brief  months,  that  filled  the  Nation's  foes  with  fear. 


GARFIELD. 

O  grant  in  Thy  great  mercy  this  the  prayer 
Unnumbered  souls  are  lifting  up  to  Thee : 
That  he  a  full,  unbroken  term,  may  be 

Our  President,  and  none  beside  him  there. 

July  3,  1881. 


41 


AT    THE    WHITE    HOUSE. 

WHILE  friendship's  eyes  with  grief  are  dim, 
And  all  the  world  is  wet  with-  tears, 
To  whom  a  week  seemed  more  like  years, 
Still  sweeter  waters  well  for  him 
And  soothe  his  soul  like  heavenly  dew, 

Love's  sunshine  beaming  thro'  them  all ; 
Till  lo  !  not  long  the  big  drops  fall — 
Heaven  in  her  eyes  ne'er  hid  from  view — 
Ere  hope's  bright  rainbow  on  her  brow 
So  like  a  tranquil  sky  appears, 
Behind  it  bars  the  bitter  tears, 
The  while  a  few  sweet  drops  do  flow. 


The  heart's  crushed  flowers  what  incense  make  ! 
In  words  the  wires  and  cable  call, 
Whose  silent  showers,  thro'  death-like  pall, 

The  lingering  lovers  overtake 

42 


AT   THE    WHITE  HOUSE.  43 

In  that  first  meeting  of  the  pair 

Since  forth  of  bliss  like  Eden's  sent, 
Yet  not,  thank  God  !  to  banishment, 

For  His  kind  presence  still  is  there. 

Ah  !  when  disaster's  bolt  had  burst, 

And  horror  seized  the  nation's  skies, 
Behold,  what  peace  in  love's  sweet  eyes  ! 

And  faith  unshaken  from  the  first. 

July  13,  1881. 


HEAVENLY    WATCHERS    AT    THE 
WHITE    HOUSE.   ' 

FRESH  on  that  sick-room's  dull  and  tainted  air 
The  spirit  scents  the  fragrance  of  the  skies, 
For  lo  !  God's  angels  look  with  loving  eyes 

On  the  calm  Christian  hero  struggling  there 

In  long  and  weary  conflicts  with  despair 
And  death  ;  but  each  new  day  an  angel  flies 
From  the  sad  chamber  where  the  sufferer  lies, 

Heavenward  this  blessed  bulletin  to  bear : 


"  Faith  firm,  hope  high,  and  courage  unabated, 

Both  as  to  this  life,  and  the  life  above. 
While  thrice  we  watchers  for  the  end  have  waited , 

Pitying  the  sanguine  dreams  of  anxious  love, 
Till  at  the  last  all  human  hope  had  fled ;  N 

Lo  !   our  kind  Father  thrice  hath  raised  him  from  the 
dead." 

44 


HEAVENLY  WATCHERS.  45 

Back  comes  the  message  o'er  the  troubled  seas 
That  Jie   twixt   earth  and    Heaven:    "By   mortal 

prayer, 
Not  angel  ministries  or  tender  care 

Of  Love,  nor  yet  the  healer's  skill,  tho'  these 

Lessened  and  soothed  his  death-like  agonies — 
The  pleas  of  suppliant  nations  mingling  there, 
Thro'  them,  fresh  hope  is  theirs  for  sheer  despair, 

Death  kept  at  bay  before  the  bended  knees !" 

May  these  prayers  still,  as  with  one  voice  arise, 
Assailing  mid-Heaven  with  their  echoes  sweet ; 

From  these  poor  wounds  men  turn  their  steadfast  eyes 
To  His  rent  side,  His  wounded  hands  and  feet  ! 

So  takes  the  human  heart  a  tenderer  tone 

For  having  harbored  sorrows  sadder  than  its  own. 

September  2,  1881. 


GOD    AND    THE    SEA. 

"And  his  weary  eyes  welcome  the  sight  of  the  sea." — Biciines  Dispatch. 

FROM  that  death-haunted  chamber  they  solemnly  bore 

him, 

To  die  i i> their  arms  it  might  be  ! 
But  strong-winged  angels  flew  seaward  before  him, 
To  move  the  great  heart  of  the  deep  to  restore  him, 
Rouse,  nourish,  and  rest  him,  breathe  thro'   him  and 

o'er  him 

The  blood-thrilling  balm  of  the  sea — 
The  life-giving  breath  and  the  strength  of  the  sea. 

Stern  Science  grew  motherly,  thoughtful,  and  tender 

As  his  own  loving  mother  might  be  ! 
And  day  and  night  pondered  how  best  she  could  render 
Assistance,  so  naught  merely  human  would  hinder 
The  brave  heart  in  that  body  so  pallid  and  slender 
From  sounding  its  thanks  to  the  sea — 
From  trilling  its  drum-beats  of  joy  by  the  sea. 
46 


GOD  AND    THE   SEA. 


47 


The  face  of  young  Autumn  was  flushed  as  with  fever, 

And  crimson  as  Summer's  might  be  ! 
And  her  touch  was  so  scorching  they  scarce  could  be- 
lieve her 

Sweet  Autumn  to  be ;  yet  she  was  no  deceiver — 
Our  burden  of  sorrow  seemed  greatly  to  grieve  her, 

And  she  raved  in  that  run  to  the  sea ; 

But  at  sunset  she  smiled — the  fair  bride  of  the  sea  ! 

That  day  through  fair  Autumn's  delusion  he  dallies 

With  dreams  of  a  blessing  to  be  ! 
Though  nature  is  drooping,  the  President  rallies, 
And  they  run  a  rapider  rate  through  the  valleys, 
And  the  good  engine  glides  down  the  hill-tops  and 
sallies 

Forth  of  woodlands,  fast  nearing  the  sea, 
Till  "  his  weary  eyes  welcome  the  sight  of  the  sea." 

Yet  smoothly  and  tenderly  thither  they  bore  him  ; 

To  die  was  not  heaven's  decree, 
For  the  swift- winged  angels  flew  seaward  before  him, 
And  stirred  the  great  heart  of  the  deep  to  restore  him, 
Nurse,   nourish,   and  rest  him,   breathe  through  him 
and  o'er  him 

The  life-giving  breath  of  the  sea, 
And  he  gains !  by  the  grace  of  our  God  and  His  sea  ! 

September  9,  1881. 


THE    SECOND    MARTYR. 

HUSHED  be  thy  moaning  and  sobbing,  O  sea  ! 

Thine  but  the  semblance  of  sorrow  ! 
And  thou  light-hearted  as  ever  will  be 

On  the  dawning  for  us  of  a  bitter  to-morrow  ! 
O  joyous  sea  !    O  bitter  sorrow  ! 

Ye  winds  apparelled  in  midnight  pall, 

How  feebly  ye  voice  his  death, 
And  harrow  our  hearts  with  the  scenes  you  recall, 

When  he  felt  your  buoyant  breath  ! 
O  merry  winds  !    O  midnight  pall ! 

O  winds !  and  O  sea  !  how  sad  to  think 

That  mortally  wounded  man 
Still  cheerfully  quaffed  your  breeze  on  the  brink 

Where  death's  chill  river  ran, 
And  spoke  in  your  praise,  poor,  patient  man  ! 
48 


THE   SECOND  MARTYR.  49 

O  Elberon  bells  !  ye  pierce  the  soul — 
He  heard  you  with  hope  in  his  heart ; 

The  hour  for  prayer  he  heard  you  toll, 
And  ye  caused  his  tears  to  start. 

O  hopeful  heart !    O  Elberon  bells  ! 


Spirit  of  prayer !  not  in  vain  o'er  the  deep 
Of  our  sorrow  thou  brooded  and  breathed  ; 

Lo  !  now  we*  wonder,  while  yet  we  weep, 
At  the  blessings  the  battle  bequeathed  ! 

We  weep  and  wonder,  we  wonder  and  weep. 


No  tears  are  shed  for  him  in  the  skies, 
"  Our  loss,"  they  know,  "  is  his  gain  :M 

Yet  moist  must  have  been  even  angel  eyes 
To  witness  his  wasting  pain — 

But  no  tears  are  shed  for  him  now  in  the  skies. 


It  is  for  the  human  heart  to  mourn, 
For  human  eyes  to  weep, 

And  aye  for  man  of  woman  born 
To  suffer  and  then  to  sleep — 

It  is  for  human  eyes  to  weep. 
5 


o  THE   SECOND   MARTYR. 

O  human  hearts  the  world  around  ! 

Stay  not'this  torrent  of  tears  ! 
The  love  ye  sow  in  his  grave's  holy  ground 

Will  blossom,  for  countless  years, 
In  human  hearts  the  world  around. 

By  the  desolate  shore  of  this  sea  of  sorrow, 
Trembling  and  mute  they  stand, 

Who  pray  for  the  speed  of  a  better  morrow 
With  their  own  in  a  happier  land, 

Where  hope  cannot  die  by  the  hand  of  sorrow. 

A  new-made  grave,  and  a  world  bowed  down, 

The  while  two  martyrs  meet 
In  the  City  of  God  !  Behold  the  crown 

They  have  laid  at  a  people's  feet  ! 
And  men  are  moved  when  such  martyrs  meet. 

Oh  !  his  was  indeed  a  martyr's  doom  ! 

Thank  God  for  the  martyr's  crown  ! 
A  cruel  death  and  an  early  tomb, 

And  unimagined  renown  ! 
God  be  praised  for  the  martyr's  crown  ! 

September  23,  1881. 


AT    REST. 

BENEATH  that  grand  triumphal  arch  the  night 
O'erlaid  with  fading  stars  in  lieu  of  flowers, 
Fit  tokens  of  this  fleeting  life  of  ours, 

A  warrior  passed,  so  altered  to  the  sight, 

Men  said  had  won  a  world  in  valiant  fight ; 

When  a  voice  answered  from  the  King's  high  towers : 
Two  worlds  hath  won,  the  wreck  of  Eden's  bowers, 

And  the  new  Eden  death  can  never  smite. 

Tall  archways,  eloquent  with  flowers,  arise ; 

Triumphal  music  beats  his  anguished  breast, 

Then  breathes  a  requiem  caught  from  sacred  choirs; 
Kind  eyes  look  out,  like  stars,  from  sorrow's  skies, 

And  pour  their  love-light  'round  his  place  of  rest. 

Sweet  starlight  left  of  Eden's  lingering  fires  ! 

September  28,  1881. 


COLUMBIA    TO    ARTHUR^ 

ART  not  successor  unto  one  whom  now 

All  Time  declares  immortal?     Late  was  seen, 
Where  thou  hast  come  with  faith-inspiring  mien, 
The  only  man  upon  whose  dying  brow 
The  world  its  crown  of  love  did  e'er  bestow. 
Remembering,  then,  what  he  to  me  hath  been 
And  aye  will  be — the  people's  sight  how  keen, 
Their  sense  of  right  so  quickened  by  their  woe, 
Take  thou  this  mantle,  consecrate  with  tears, 
And  hallowed  be  the  heart's  blood  of  the  dear 
And  deathless  dead  men  mourn  as  for  their  own, 
And  wear  it,  not  in  sight  of  fleeting  years, 
Nor  of  this  age  alone,  but  in  the  clear 
White   light   of    Freedom's    future   and   Jehovah's 
throne  ! 

October  6,  1881. 


LOVE'S    WOUNDS. 

LIFE  the  first  born  of  Eden's  bowers,  Death  last, 
And  love  that  came  between — mysterious  Three  ! 
O  Life  and  Death,  at  last  on  which  of  ye 

Shall  blame  of  Love's  unkindest  hurts  be  cast  ? 

All  healed  then,  and  every  sorrow  passed, 

Whose  pitying  hand,  whose  balsam-dropping  tree 
Left  for  those  wounds  and  all  that  misery 

The  sweetest  cordial  ?    Death's  the  iconoclast  ? 

Oh  !  Life,  I  fear,  Love  at  the  last  will  say 

That  thou,  not  Death,  didst  him  severely  smite. 

And  tell  how,  when  he  faint  and  bleeding  lay 
By  Time's  roadside,  Death  softened  at  the  sight, 
And  decently  enwrapping  them  in  white, 

Took  all  the  soreness  from  his  wounds  away. 

February  22,  1882. 


53 


MOONLIGHT    GOLD. 

OH  !  who  would  give  the  daylight's  gold  and  silver, 
And  sunny  smiles  their  shining  always  brings, 

For  all  the  gold  and  gold  dust  of  the  delver, 
The  gloss  and  gilt  of  sublunary  things  ? 

And  yet  this  moonlight  gold,  and  nights  like  this  is, 
Will  rob  me  of  the  riches  of  the  morn ; 

For  bathing  in  these  glittering  tides  of  blisses, 
I  learn  to  laugh  the  tardy  day  to  scorn. 

Now  white-winged  Sleep  has  wandered  off  to  Star-land, 
Yet  left  behind  her  most  bewitching  dreams ; 

I  dream  them  o'er,  then  follow  to  that  far  land, 
When  on  my  sight  a  richer  glory  streams. 

The  boundless  moonlight,  like  the  moonlit  ocean, 
The  stars,  like  shining  shells,  upon  its  beach, 

Tossed,  'mid  the  golden  waters'  silent  motion, 
White  clouds,  for  foam,  as  far  as  eye  can  reach ! 
54 


MOONLIGHT  GOLD.  55 

The  moon  above  it,  like  the  mental  vision 
Old  sailors  have  of  youth's  delightful  land, 

The  salt  sea  loudly  laughing  in  derision 

When  in  their  dreams  they  strike  its  golden  strand. 

While  we,  glad  sailors,  in  a  lighter  vessel, 
Flushed  fancy  launches  on  this  friendlier  sea, 

Between  her  mountains  see  the  castle  nestle 

Where  we,  the  Queen's  own  guests,  to-night  will  be. 

We  sailors  —  I  am  one,  and  she  the  other  — 

An  incantation  memory  has  arrayed  ; 
Ah  !  how  we  sail  and  soar-  again  together, 

Of  moonlight  shipwreck  not  the  least  afraid  ! 

Seems  now  the  moon  a  large  and  earth-like  island, 
Whose  heights  resemble  hills  we  used  to  climb; 

We  land,  and  in  the  very  heart  of  Joy-land, 
Hear  the  lost  voices  of  love's  vanished  time. 


How  oft  man's  truant  spirit  has  disported 
Amid  the  pearly  breakers  of  that  sea  ; 

Some  hour  supreme,  transfigured  and  transported, 
Beheld  a  heavenlier  glory  yet  to  be  ! 


56  MOONLIGHT  GOLD. 

Worth  more  than  summer  spends  of  shiny  silver 
And  sunny  gold  for  honey  and  for  wine, 

Is  such  a  night !  O  thou  industrious  delver  ! 

Earth's  gold  is  dross,  heaven's  ingots  are  divine  ! 

August  12,  1881. 


KISSING. 

IF  kisses  perished  with  the  kissing, 

Nor  kept  our  love  alive, 
What  honied  sweets  well  worth  possessing 

The  heart  would  fail  to  hive ! 
How  many  links  in  life  were  missing 

That,  as  it  is,  survive  ! 
If  kisses  perished  with  the  kissing, 

Nor  kept  our  love  alive. 


If  kisses  shook  our  faith  in  kissing, 

Nor  did  that  faith  revive, 
What  mighty  stakes  were  left  to  guessing 

With  men  about  to  wive ! 
To  stop  Love's  dream  from  effervescing, 

Could  woman's  wit  contrive? 
If  kisses  shook  our  faith  in  kissing, 

Nor  did  that  faith  revive. 

57 


5  8  KISSING. 

If  kisses  out  of  Love's  lips  leaping 

Be  lost  in  sorrow's  tide, 
The  bliss  that  lovers  feel  in  weeping 

In  memory  will  abide ; 
The  grief  the  kiss  has  in  its  keeping 

Down  Lethe's  waves  shall  glide, 
If  kisses  out  of  Love's  lips  leaping 

Be  lost  in  sorrow's  tide. 

May,  1882. 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

WHAT  birds,  the  bards  of  air,  in  singing  say, 
Whisper  the  roses,  and  his  ruddy  Muse, 

When  poets-born  behold  the  break  of  day, 
Music,  like  manna,  mingles  with  the  dews. 

Exhaling,  as  the  measures  grow  in  might, 
This  early  fragrance  from  the  fields  of  song  ; 

How  have  we  quaffed  its  lyrical  delight, 
His  fancy's  goodly  company  among  ! 

How  reddened  all  the  East  of  our  desire, 

With  song-beams  from  this  singer's  glowing  breast ! 

A  grateful  age  will  greet  whose  fadeless  fire 
In  gleams  of  gold  athwart  its  fadeless  West. 

The  wilds  of  nature,  when  his  music  came, 
Hailed  in  its  sheen  their  mysteries  unveiled ; 

While  woods  and  waters,  and  their  hosts,  by  name, 
And  all  the  winds,  its  shaping  spirit  hailed. 

59 


60  HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 

It  lures  some  peeping  glory  from  a  star, 
Shows  deeper  pathos  in  a  pining  flower, 

And,  like  a  leaven  of  all  sweet  sounds  there  are, 
Imbues  with  rapture  many  a  lonely  hour. 

Poems  pure  as  the  dreams  of  Paradise 

Fair  Innocence  finds  lingering  in  her  heart, 

The  sun's  white  hands  that  bathe  her  waking  eyes, 
The  gifts  they  bring,  the  color  they  impart ! 


Whose  death-defying  harmony  inspires 

A  listener's  throb  of  triumph  in  one's  breast — 

And  imagery  refulgent  as  the  fires 

The  poet-sun  transfigures  in  the  West. 

As  when  of  old  had  vanished  all  the  dews, 
The  manna  and  its  memory  yet- remained  ; 

The  first  fresh  flush  of  fancy  loth  to  lose, 

What  treasures  hath  this  faithful  singer  gained  ! 

What  treasures  on  his  fellows  hath  bestowed  ! 

And  not  the  lays  alone  for  which  we  yearned, 
But  when  the  suns  were  set  that  on  them  glowed, 

The  strength  imparted  and  the  lessons  learned. 


HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW.  61 

Filled  with  a  melody,  the  Golden  Rule 
Is  waking  in  the  world,  beside  his  own ; 

He  breathes  more  beauty  on  the  beautiful, 
Or  leaves  new  loveliness  where  it  had  flown. 


His  tender  songs  stir  pity's  fount  of  tears, 

Griefs  bursting  drops  of  balm  break  out  between, 

As  sunshine  in  an  April  shower  appears, 
To  turn  the  wastes  of  winter  into  green. 

A  guide  by  journeyings  heav'nward  glorified  ! 

Pointing  to  cold  and  sullen  steeps,  that  freeze 
Ambition's  breath,  leads,  down  the  mountain-side, 

Where  summer  strives  for  Summer's  purple  ease. 

Held  by  her  sun-browned  hand,  and  not  a  dream, 
A  golden  ladder  leans  against  the  sky, 

And  joins  two  worlds  which  very  distant  seem 
Until  the  bright  ascent  our  spirits  try. 

Poesy  radiant  in  the  twilight  dim, 

That  on  the  longest  life  comes  unawares, 

At  night  will  give  good  angels  charge  of  him 
Whose  earthly  harp  so  much  resembles  theirs. 
6 


62  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

But  oh  !  while  yet  the  hues  of  eve  remain, 
Silence  may  sepulchre  some  matchless  ode ; 

The  fragment  of  a  psalm,  one  sweet  refrain 
If  heard,  her  heart  with  joy  were  overflowed. 

Ultima  Thule  his  moist  eyes  have  descried, 

Its  quiet  voices  echo  to  his  quest — 
Sad  sounds,  like  farewells,  in  his  last  songs  tide 

Soft  to  her  saddened  soul  the  poet's  sigh  for  rest. 

February  14,  1881. 


HENRY   WAD.SWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

O  SONNET,  like  a  bower,  in  beauty  bend — 

The  outgrowth  of  warm  hearts — above  his  tomb, 
Who  touched  thy  branches  with  sunlight  and  bloom  ! 

Hush  !     If  we  were  not  sure  he  was  our  friend 

And  thine,  we  could  not  on  our  hearts  depend, 
Ere  yet  the  gold  has  streaked  the  sudden  gloom 
And  he  is  ours  again,  to  crave  some  room 

Of  thee,  with  them  their  love  to  him  do  send. 

The  tuneful  breath  of  princely  spirits  kind, 
Mingling  with  sweeter  voices,  stir  thy  boughs, 
Till  beckons  Death  more  friendly  from  his  house, 

And  they  do  feel  so  lone  he  left  behind  ! 

But  some,  tho'  old,  bring  cheer,  and  one  tho'  blind  ! 
And  one  has  joined  him,  thou  couldst  not  arouse. 

May,  1882. 


SHELLEY. 

No  saintliness  illumined  his  sweet  lips, 

And  mouth  so  musical  were  surely  sweet — 
But  many  a  saint  shall  pass  to  his  eclipse 

Ere  fade  the  heaven  which  shines  at  Shelley's  feet, 
Wrapped  in  the  dawn-light  of  a  deathless  day, 

While  on  his  brow  there  beams  the  morning  star ! 
How  kind  some  storm  had  swept  his  heaven  away, 

And  left  the  heaven  where  God  and  angels  are  ! 
Or,  kinder,  if  the  dawn  had  grown  to  day, 

And  on  his  brow  there  shone  the  evening  star ! 
And  so  perchance  had  passed  that  heaven  away 

Which  hid  the  heaven  where  God  and  angels  are. 

Heaven  he  traversed  far  in  chariot  frail, 
But  met  no  seraphs  in  his  shining  path ; 

And  yet  his  yearning  spirit  heard  the  wail 

Wrung  from  the  earth  beneath  her  tyrant's  wrath. 

O  fairy  car!  O  " rainbow-winged  steeds  !" 
How  near  ye  bore  him  to  the  realms  of  bliss, 
64 


SHELLE  K  65 

And  thence  how  far  !  sad  soul !  is  he  who  feeds 

On  dreams  that  bring  no  better  world  than  this  ! 
"  O  rainbow-winged  steeds  !"  O  fairy  car  ! 

In  what  poor  stead  ye  stood  him  'mid  the  storm 
That  smote  his  shallop  and  his  soul !     Ye  are 

Too  frail  to  bear  a  dead  man's  shadowy  form  ! 
Too  fair  to  stem  the  awful  gulf  of  death, 

Or  mount  beyond  the  heaven  of  man's  own  making. 
Yet  sweet  his  voice  !  and  musical  his  breath  ! 

And  for  his  song  there  can  be  no  forsaking  ! 

November  17,  1881. 


KEATS. 

His  songs  arise,  like  nymphs,  from  music's  tide, 
Dripping  with  sweetness  and  with  gems  adorned, 

And  down  its  ebbing  waves  in  beauty  glide, 

Tho'  them  some  envious  rough  wind  coldly  scorned. 

His  spirit  seemed  like  a  lone,  lovely  Fay, 

Lured  by  celestial  sounds  from  joy's  domain  ; 

But  oh  !  too  soon  they  bore  his  harp  away — 
The  angels  moved  to  pity  for  his  pain. 

While  broken  rainbows,  blending  with  the  gloom, 
Dissolved  in  dreams  above  and  death  beneath, 

And  flowers  of  music,  in  immortal  bloom, 

Plucked    from  his  harp-strings   formed   his  funeral 
wreath. 

July  5,  1880. 


66 


POE    AND    HIS    "ANNABEL    LEE." 

WHILE  thou,  true  poet,  didst  her  love  embalm 

In  the  sweet  spices  of  enduring  song, 
Brought  from  the  Araby  of  Love's  bright  realm, 

Where  Poesy's  pure  odors  thrill  and  throng — 
Brought  thence  by  thee  united  with  the  Muse, 

Instead  thy  Heav'n-enveloped  vanished  bride — 
Lost  plighted  bliss  thou  couldst  not  wholly  lose, 

So  like  it  hers  who  loved,  but  never  died  ! 

To  him,  true  maiden,  did  thy  love  light  dawning 

Violet-sweet  appear — a  radiant  day 
Whose  night  refused  to  blossom  into  morning, 

And  took  the  soul  from  all  his  song  away. 
But  when  thou  cam'st  again  to  him,  arrayed 

In  Memory's  robes  as  for  thy  bridal  day, 
Thy  love-light  its  immortal  hues  displayed, 

And  left  his  soul  embalmed  in  song  for  aye ! 

September  2,  1880. 


DREAMS. 

THE  dreams  of  day  do  end  in  night, 

The  dreams  of  night  in  morn  ! 
The  web  we  weave  of  sense  and  sight, 

May  yet  be  doomed  to  scorn  ; 
But  of  the  heart  of  life  and  light, 

The  hues  of  sleep  were  born. 
We  toil  till  dusk,  at  dark  do  weep, 
Our  joys  chained  down  in  night's  strong  keep ; 
Then  lose  ourselves  in  sweet,  sweet  sleep, 

To  find  our  woes  in  chains  at  morn. 


The  dreams  of  morn  do  fade  ere  noon, 
The  dreams  of  noon  ere  night ! 

We  bless  the  sun,  we  praise  the  moon, 
Till  both  be  out  of  sight. 

We  say  our  night-dreams  die  too  soon, 
Our  day-dreams  are  too  light  ! 
68 


DREAMS.  69 

We  wake  to  toil  and  smile  at  eve, 
Night  thralls  the  things  that  made  us  grieve ; 
But  ah  !  tho'  bright  the  dreams  we  weave, 
'Tis  joy  is  thrall  with  wane  of  night ! 

Then  sad  we  greet  thro'  mists  of  morn 

The  world  of  sense  and  sight, 
And  chafed  of  hope  would  laugh  to  scorn 

The  hues  of  sleep  and  night, 
Till  lo  !  we  learn  of  these  were  born 

The  soul  of  life  and  light ! 
Scorn  not  thy  dreams,  O  heart  of  mine, 
For  bright  or  dark  do  thro'  them  shine 
Stray  gleams  of  realms  may  yet  be  thine, 

Ere  death  drown  all  thy  dreams  in  night ! 

January  12,  1882. 


THE    LOVERS    NEW    YEAR. 

NEVER,  New  Year  !  by  thy  charms  and  enchantments, 

Canst  thou  sunder  my  old  love  from  me ; 
Like  an  angel  of  mercy  behind  life's  entrenchments, 

Wherever  a  sorrow  may  be, 
To  cheer,  as  at  first,  when  the  sweet  "  yes"  fell  fainting 

From  a  mouth  that  was  sweeter  than  May ! 
New  Year !  not  the  visions  of  bliss  thou  art  painting 

Can  spirit  my  true  Love  away  ! 

'Tis  a  lost  year  that  brought  the  sweet  fairy  before  me, 

When  the  dew-drops  lay  light  on  the  flowers ; 
But  I  see  in  the  soft  rays  of  eyes  bending  o'er  me, 

The  starlight  that  brightened  those  hours ; 
In  the  kiss  of  her  modest  mouth,  live  the  May  over, 

Of  a  year  the  most  precious  to  me — 
Ah  !  dearer  the  old  year  that  made  me  a  lover, 

Than  ever  a  New  Year  can  be  ! 

December,  1881. 
70 


HENRY    ARMITT    BROWN. 

WHEN  one  like  Henry  Armitt  Brown 
Must  die,  his  life  so  young  and  fair, 

Bright  with  the  blossoms  of  renown, 
Hope  itself  may  well  despair. 

And  pallid  Death  will  seem  to  some 
Calamity  more  dark  and  dread : 

A  blacker  night  hang  o'er  the  tomb, 
For  the  bright  spirit  that  has  fled. 

To  others,  with  Faith's  steadfast  eye, 
That  has  Grief's  soothing  sway  obeyed, 

Heav'n's  grand  and  glowing  canopy 
Caps  the  bright  vault  where  he  is  laid. 

And  thus  the  burning  stars  of  night 
Become  inscriptions  o'er  his  grave, 

And  show  us  whither  tends  his  flight — 
The  pure  in  heart  and  truly  brave. 


7  2  HENR  Y  A  R MITT  BR  O  WN. 

And  nightly,  thro'  the  coming  years, 
Will  tell  of  light  and  beauty  lost — 

Nay,  lifted,  'mid  a  world  in  tears, 
To  realms  a  world  of  tears  hath  cost. 

September  17,  1878. 


SONG. 

IF  never  you  had  blamed,  Love, 

Nor  quenched  the  spark  divine, 
I  should  not  be  ashamed,  Love, 

To  let  my  talents  shine : 
Star-like  my  heart  had  flamed,  Love, 

From  out  the  heaven  of  thine. 
If  never  you  had  blamed,  Love, 

Nor  quenched  the  spark  divine. 


If  you  could  see  my  heart,  Love, 

Or  feel  its  flame  of  fire, 
That  burns  with  love  of  Art,  Love, 

As  well  as  Love's  desire, 
So  star-like  from  the  start,  Love, 

E'en  yet  it  would  aspire. 
If  you  could  see  my  heart,  Love, 

Or  feel  its  flame  of  fire. 

7  73 


74 


SONG. 

If  once  my  talents  shone,  Love, 

And  you  your  love  let  shine, 
Life  would  not  be  so  lone,  Love, 

And  Love  would  be  divine ; 
My  light  should  be  your  own,  Love, 

My  love  resemble  thine. 
If  once  my  talents  shone,  Love, 

And  you  your  love  let  shine. 


May,  1882. 


JENNIE. 

THO'  not  another  friend  had  I, 
I  would  not  heave  an  envious  sigh 

If  still  beloved  by  Jennie  ! 
For,  hand  in  hand  and  heart  with  heart, 
Till  strength  from  heart  and  hand  depart, 

We'd  cull  life's  blossoms  many. 

And  while  we  plucked  those  roses  tender 
That  do  such  modest  hopes  engender, 

If  treated  ill  of  any, 
We'd  comfort  each  the  other  so, 
Our  love  and  joy  should  mutual  flow — 

Ah  !  would  we  not,  my  Jennie? 

When  Youth's  fair  tree  has  lost  its  blossoms, 
And  hope  has  fled  our  chilling  bosoms, 

No  longer  loved  of  any, 
We'll  not  repine  o'er  vanished  sweets, 
Long  left  in  pleasure's  dim  retreats, 

But  still  be  cheerful,  Jennie. 

7.5 


7  6  JENNIE. 

And  with  the  lute  of  love,  subdued 
By  thought  of  many  a  perished  good 

And  faded  friendship,  Jennie, 
We'll  tune  our  hearts  to  sing  of  Heaven, 
Where  grief's  forgot,  nor  pain  is  given, 

And  Death  comes  not  to  any. 

1865. 


BURIED    LOVE'S    EPITAPH. 

OH  !  Earth,  my  flower  thou  foldest  to  thy  breast  ! 

Still  sweet  the  rose,  whence  so  much  sweetness  fled  ? 
Since  of  her  grace  thou,  too,  art  dispossessed, 

Her  spotless  name  its  fragrance  here  shall  shed. 

Kind  words,  warm  as  Love's  heart,  Love's  living  breath, 
In  marble  cold  and  white  !     A  subtle  flame, 
Within  whose  charmed  circle  one  dear  name 

Defieth  the  devouring  jaws  of  Death  ! 

Not  heeding  what  the  night  wind  muttereth, 
Smiling  thro*  storm  and  sunshine  just  the  same, 
In  this  lone  shelter,  more  secure  than  fame,  v 

Content  with  what  surviving  Love's  heart  saith. 

The  marble's  time-swept  snow  may  drift  away, 
Or  mingle  with  the  dust  that  sleeps  below; 
But  in  its  stead  sweet  flowers  shall  rise,  and  so 

Suggest  the  fragrance  of  her  name,  decay 

Can  never  touch,  and  when  the  last  flower  dies, 
Heaven    will   reveal    Love's    name,    Love's   voice, 
Love's  eyes  ! 

February  2,  1882. 

7*  77 


THE   LOWLY   LOVERS   OF  THE  MUSE. 

O  POESY,  loved,  honored,  and  adored 

By  crowned  heads  of  one  long  bardic  line, — 

How  often,  like  an  angel  of  the  Lord, 

To  beggared  souls  thou  bringest  gifts  divine, 
For  fainting  souls  outpourest  warming  wine, 

Who  never  feasted  at  thy  banquet  board, 

Whose  lives  were  one  long  fast,  with  fate's  accord, 
Sweet  spirit,  but  for  that  generous  heart  of  thine  ! 

When  books,  that  hide  the  music  of  thy  heart, 
Blaze  like  the  gold  of  morn  we  cannot  reach, 
Or  if  we  have  them,  like  that  morning  gold, 
Borne  from  us  by  the  daytime  far  apart, 
We  hear  thy  silent,  most  melodious  speech, 
With  thine  ownself  unseen  communion  hold  ! 

October,  1881. 


THE    RICH    AND    THE     SUFFERING. 

HAS  she,  indeed,  red  rose  so  fresh  and  fair, 

Journeyed  far  up  the  valley  of  the  night 
Unto  these  purpling  hills  of  morn  ?     Is  there 

No  faintness  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  sight  ? 
Is't  fear,  still  lingering,  makes  thee  tremble  so; 

This  flush,  a  vaporish  fever  in  thy  blood  ? 
Nay,  nay,  it  was  the  breeze.     Why — do  you  know 

I  feel  as  bright  as  any  new-blown  bud. 

Yet  couldst  thou  tell  what  thou  hast  seen  and  heard  ; 

What  grim  and  ghastly  shapes  beset  thy  way, 
What  meanings  in  the.  dark,  no  pity  stirred, 

What  voices  praying  for  the  dawn  of  day  ! 
I  fear  the  joy  thy  greeting  now  bestows 
Would  turn  to  pain,  though  passing  fair  thou  be,  rich 
rose ! 

June  13,  1881. 

79 


LOVE'S    SONG. 

I  FEEL  no  need  of  thee,  fair  Spring, 

To  quicken  my  delights ; 
Thy  sunshine  she  to  me  will  bring 

I  wooed,  o'  winter  nights. 

I  hear  all  sorts  of  singing  birds 

In  her  melodious  voice ; 
Thy  music  ripples  thro'  her  words, 

Who  is  my  bosom's  choice. 

Thy  odors  sweet  be  in  her  breath, 
Thy  morning  in  her  eyes  ! 

And  after  summer — after  death — 
We'll  winter  in  the  skies  ! 


April,  1882. 


80 


REMENYI. 

RADIANT  thy  bow  !  athwart  that  floating  heaven 
Thy  soul  up-buildeth  'round  the  violin, 
Of  sounds  so  pure  an  angel's  dreams  therein 

Might  drift,  like  snowy  clouds  thro'  purpling  even, 

With  no  stain  save  thy  heart-hued  strains  had  given, 
Rainbow  of  promise,  thine  hath  ever  been  ; 
No  deluging,  with  music,  of  earth's  din, 

Till  beauty's  veil  Remenyi's  hand  hath  riven  ! 

A  strain  so  soft !  a  spirit's  sigh  might  seem — 
So  sad  betimes,  and  unimagined  sweet  ! 
The  nightingale  would  cease  her  song  to  hear, 
And  think  she  heard  her  own  voice  in  a  dream. 
So  blithe  the  sound  !  would  make  an  echo  meet 
For  Love's  call  in  the  springtime  of  the  year. 

January  18,  1882. 


8l 


"BETTY    AND    THE    BABY." 

WHEN  sorrow,  like  a  frenzy,  swept 

Thro'  countless  peaceful  bosoms, 
And  love  fell  prone  and  hopeless  wept 

'Mid  summer's  drooping  blossoms, 
How  drear  that  guard  the  soldier  kept 

Of  him  who  spread  this  anguish  ! 
Tho'  justice  had  not  died,  nor  slept, 

And  vengeance  did  but  languish, 
Perchance  that  frenzy  turned  his  head, 

And  overpowered,  it  may  be, 
The  heart  that  loved,  the  hand  that  fed 

Poor  Betty  and  the  Baby. 


He  thought  it  hard,  who  fought  so  well 
To  save  the  land  from  ruin, 

That  he  must  daily  guard  his  cell 

Who  had  been  Hope's  undoing, 
82 


BETTY  AND    THE  BABY.  83 

Whose  hated  face  behind  the  bars 

Had  dimmed  the  sunshine's  brightness, 
And  cast  a  gloom  about  the  stars, 

And  blanched  Love's  cheek  to  whiteness ! 
This  bitter  thought  then  turned  his  head 

And  overpowered,  it  may  be, 
The  heart  that  loved,  the  hand  that  fed 

Poor  Betty  and  the  Baby. 

And  could  it  be  he  had  forgot 

His  babe,  its  mother  Betty? 
A  father's  love  !   ah  !  did  it  not 

Incline  his  soul  to  pity? 
Yes,  thinking  of  his  own,  he  felt 

For  them,  the  assassin  wounded ; 
And  while  his  heart  with  love  might  melt, 

Its  fury  was  unbounded ; 
Thus,  armed  to  shoot,  it  turned  his  head 

And  overpowered,  it  may  be, 
The  heart  that  loved,  the  hand  that  fed 

Poor  Betty  and  the  Baby. 

He  loved  the  President  because 

He,  too,  had  been  a  soldier  : 
With  loves  like  these,  what  were  the  laws  ? 

Then,  musket  to  the  shoulder, 


84  BETTY  AND    THE  BABY. 

Fast  sped  the  ball  that  proved  so  true 

Where  least  he  had  intended ; 
While  Guiteau  grinned,  'mid  much  ado, 

His  own  bright  dreams  were  ended  ! 
For  there,  between  him  and  the  bars, — 

He  fancied  so,  it  may  be, — 
With  their  white  faces  toward  the  stars, 

Stood  Betty  and  the  Baby. 


WINTHROP    W.    KETCHAM. 

ILL-MATED,  thou  of  warm  and  genial  soul, 

With  cold  and  callous  Death  didst  seem  to  be ; 
He  came,  but  did  not  linger  long,  yet  stole 

Away  thy  heart,  nigh  unawares  to  thee ; 
And,  as  in  recompense  for  what  he  took, 

To  soothe  thy  friends,  had  left  the  life  bloom  there 
Upon  thy  brow,  and  such  a  living  look. 

Relenting  then,  we  said  that  Death  was  fair, 
And  deemed  him  but  a  friendly  guide  to  lead 

Thee,  venerable  traveller,  on  thy  way, 
Without  the  need  of  staff  or  scrip  or  steed, 

Upward  thro'  shining  worlds  to  endless  day. 


Dear  as  thou  wert  to  every  heart,  'twere  sweet 
To  think  thee  here  'mid  this  memorial  scene, 

Even  now  these  sorrow-clouded  eyes  to  greet, 
With  wonted  smile  behold  the  love  they  mean  ; 
8  85 


86  WIN7HROP    W.   KETCH  AM. 

But  that  we  fear  illusions  that  entice 

The  sense  and  do  not  satisfy  the  mind, 
And  so  we  speed  thee  on  to  Paradise 

And  peace,  and  cling  to  what  thou'st  left  behind  : 
The  noble  record  of  thy  heart  and  hand, 

Wherein  aught  low  or  mean  no  man  can  trace ; 
Good  deeds  that  long  shall  live  in  all  the  land, 

When  men  have  ceased  to  know  thy  resting-place ; 
The  memory  of  thy  smiles  and  friendly  grasp, 

And  words  of  import  deep  and  honest  cheer, 
Thy  likeness  in  our  heart's  soft  case  we  clasp, 

As  with  a  golden  clasp  and  hold  so  dear. 


Imbued  with  love  immortal  for  the  right, 

Thy  course  was  notable,  deserving  fame, 
And  as  each  shining  ray  is  no  less  bright 

Than  the  clear  orb  from  whence  it  sparkling  came, 
So  all  thou  didst  was,  like  thee,  just  and  good, — 

The  image  of  thy  own  peculiar  powers. 
Thou  wert  not  perfect ;  if  thou  wert,  we  could 

Not  love  thee  as  we  did,  nor  call  thee  ours ; 
Thy  public  life  was  grand,  if  truth  is  grand, 

And  splendor  still  invests  a  people's  praise; 
Thy  home  was  dear  to  thee  as  Holy  Land 

E'er  was  to  Christian  knight  in  ancient  days. 


WINTHROP    W.   KETCH  AM.  87 

Sweet  as  the  memory  of  a  precious  gift 

From  one  departed  whom  the  heart  holds  dear, 
Thy  unforgotten  words  that  still  uplift 

The  struggling  student  in  his  lonely  sphere ; 
His  name  upon  the  archway  of  the  world 

He  seeks  to  carve,  makes  thy  high  creed  his  own, 
And  learns,  where  freedom's  emblem  is  unfurled, 

A  man  may  rise  to  greatness  by  his  worth  alone. 


FVLAG    AND    FATHERLAND. 

BRAVE  Flag  !  like  some  grand  veteran  now, 

With  starry  emblems  gay  ! 
Let  every  freeman  bare  his  brow 

And  count  thy  scars  to-day, 
Until  the  stars  shine  out  and  throw 

A  still  diviner  ray. 

Upon  thy  star-gemmed  breast  how  oft 

The  wounded  found  repose, 
And  dreaming  of  thy  flights  aloft, 

To  life  again  arose  ! 
While  o'er  the  dead  thy  beams  fell  soft, 

But  flashed  upon  thy  foes. 

Thy  azure  fields, — how  like  the  soul 
No  bounds  of  space  confine  !  — 

When  war's  red  clouds  across  them  roll, 
With  crimson  beauty  shine  ; 

When  merrily  the  peace-bells  toll, 
What  skies  so  clear  as  thine  ! 


FLAG  AND  FATHERLAND. 

Thou  art  the  flag  of  all  the  world, 

Tho'  many  banners  be, 
For  lo  !  arose  with  thee  unfurled 

The  dawn  of  liberty ; 
Not  all  the  storms  that  hate  hath  hurled 

Could  hide  its  light  from  thee  ! 

Oh  !  we  well  love  our  Fatherland, 

And  green  its  memory  still ; 
On  its  far  heights  in  dreams  we  stand, 

And  drink  again  our  fill 
Of  joy's  red  wine,  while  fancy's  wand 

Reveals  each  vale  and  hill. 

But,  waving  in  thy  heaven  of  blue, 

Its  future  flag  we  see, 
When  man  to  man  is  kind  and  true, 

And  truth  herself  is  free  ! 
And  all  the  bliss  Columbia  knew 

Our  Fatherland's  shall  be  ! 

O  Freedom's  land  !  and  Fatherland  ! 

Beloved  lands  ye  be  ! 
Great  God  and  just !  stretch  forth  thy  hand 

And  set  the  fettered  free  : 
So  Fatherland  made  Freedom's  land 

We  yet  may  live  to  see. 

June  15,  1881. 


89 


BEAUTIFUL    IN    DEATH. 

I  KISS  her  cold  lips ;  yet  the  blooms  on  her  cheek, 

It  behooves  me  to  listen  the  language  they  speak ; 

Faint-red  hues  from  the  heart  of  a  rose  that  arise, 

To  dally  with  death  till  the  last  blossom  dies. 

Nay,  'tis  death's  truce  with  beauty  to  last  for  an  hour ; 

While  his  lily  shows  white,  fares  it  well  with  my  flower. 

I  look  on  the  lily  and  question  the  rose : 

Is  this  all, — silent  dust,  and  a  rayless  repose? 

Oh  !  the  rose  in  my  dead  darling's  cheek,  how  it  pleads 
With  my  heart  to  be  happy,  my  heart  that  still  bleeds  ! 
'Tis  the  sweet,  sudden  sign  on  her  pallid  face  set, 
That  her  spirit's  true  Love  and  her  spirit  have  met ; 
While  the  hues  of  his  lily  my  sorrow  assure, 
Death's  truce  is  eternal  with  souls  that  are  pure. 

April  10,  1881. 


90 


MY    LOST    YOUTH. 

A  VOICE  I  hear  o'er  memory's  misty  mountains, 
Calls  kindly  to  my  soul  this  Sabbath  day, 

When  suddenly  my  eyes  are  flowing  fountains 
Where  Psyche  seeks  to  wash  her  stains  away. 

A  light  bursts  on  me  from  a  vanished  morning 
Wherein  no  discord  jarred  the  sense  or  sight ; 

When  robes  vain  Psyche  donned,  for  her  adorning, 
Take  on  the  solemn  hues  of  death  and  night. 

A  breath  I  feel, — a  long-departed  presence, 

Whose  garment's  hem  to  touch  is  all  my  prayer, — 

When  Psyche  sickens  to  her  very  essence, 
And  for  an  hour  is  threatened  with  despair. 

Sweet  voice  !  that  calls  to  me  o'er  memory's  mountains, 
Thou  wert  my  own  when  youth  this  forehead  crowned, 

Ere  yet  these  eyes  were  sorrow's  flowing  fountains, 
And  I  had  trodden  life's  forbidden  ground. 


92 


MY  LOST   YOUTH. 


Oh  !  golden  Light !  Oh  !  Presence  long-departed, 
The  morn  is  mine  !   my  former  self  is  here  ! 

But  what  I  am  has  made  me  broken-hearted, 
When  what  I  was  so  vivid  will  appear. 

But  hark  !  for  this  a  kindlier  voice  is  calling, 
Cleaving  the  clouds  which  overhang  the  soul, 

A  brighter  sunshine  'round  about  me  falling, 
While  tears  of  joy  adown  my  cheeks  do  roll. 

A  radiant  Presence,  fresh  from  Joy's  dominions, 
A  brighter  than  my  lost  Atlantis  brings, — 

The  angel  Hope  !  whose  heaven-anointed  pinions 
Drop  new-born  light  on  Psyche's  drooping  wings. 

June,  1882. 


THE    END. 


